


Marmalade--

by chamomilekai



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Hetalia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, USUK - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-26 00:48:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14989130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamomilekai/pseuds/chamomilekai
Summary: Then I remembered. Back in high school, when I attended class on an exchange program, there was a funny-looking kid with glasses too big for his face, but the sweetest smile. He would find any moment to talk to me, and he would blush when I laughed, and offer to carry my things. I remembered the haphazard relationship we tried- how we had decided it wasn’t worth it, and how it was childish, so we stuck to being friends. I closed my eyes and remembered every single nervous kiss and stroll with our hands together. How could I put all that aside? I had completely forgotten it all. I remembered the day I had to leave, when he had taken me to a secluded place under the stars and had told me-“That I would be your hero.” Alfred took my face in his hands and my eyes opened to the tear-filled blue of his. “That I would keep you safe, and-”“-Keep the monsters away…” I finished.“Now, I didn’t do that part very well, did I?”





	Marmalade--

**Author's Note:**

> A USUK oneshot I've been working on for a few years.

What is it about rain? For some it brings joy. Most sadness. What makes heaven cry out for someone else? Why does it always rain during tragedy- if I could even call it tragedy? It was raining right then, a grotesque symphony of water on rooftops, on umbrellas, and an unlucky gentleman’s hat that made me sick to my stomach. Not a rainstorm, but a calm, pattering rain that made me want to curse the world. If it was going to rain, why couldn’t it rain for me? Why couldn’t it rain violently, flooding, and awful? That’s how I felt. It might have even made me feel a bit better if it had started raining a little bit harder right then, but no. It was still serene and disgustingly perfect.

The window was uncomfortably cold, but I wasn’t about to move. My forehead hurt, pressed against the glass, my eyelids were heavy, and I was overcome with a sudden shiver that snapped me out of whatever trance I had been in concerning the drizzle outside. I needed to get up. My forehead stuck to the window, much like a woman’s thighs on a smooth chair as I pulled my head away from the chilly glass pane. I moved my head enough to read the clock and figured that I needed to go out and find some food before the shops closed, but my body was stiff and I couldn’t gain the will to move. I managed to push myself off of the windowsill and stand anyway- balance taking a moment to work correctly.

The kitchen seemed so far away. I needed to grab my keys though. Locking my flat door was important. I sighed, leaning against a wall and starting down the hall, my mind wandering. It was so slow, the world spinning at the same speed, but it seemingly took hours for me to step on the linoleum.

I ran a hand through my hair then pulled away at the plain filthiness of it. God, I needed a shower. How long has it been? I let the kitchen tap run for a second splashed cold water on my face in an attempt to force myself to feel a little bit more attentive. I sighed an exasperated sigh and moved to grab my coat and keys. Before I reached them, my arm brushed against the counter in tired clumsiness, causing something to fall and made a loud bang that scared me out of my senses.

I swore, loudly, and covered my head with my hands, falling to the floor instinctively. Memories flooded my mind and I slipped into a horrid flashback, bile in my throat.  
I remembered so clearly. How could I not? The constant sound of gunshots. Just like that bang. My back against the dirt of the trench, weapon held tightly against my chest like it was the only thing keeping me alive. There was a yell and a grenade. Cannon fire. Cannon fodder. Screams. Bloody hell, the screaming was unbearable. The man next to me was shot. Dead. I could have been next but I mustered up all I had in me and shot at the other side until I couldn’t anymore. I remember blood in my hair and tears on my face, and all I could do was hurl lead at none but innocent men who were for some reason our enemies.

How I got out of it alive I don’t know, but there I was on my kitchen floor crying into my knees like a child who had woken from a nightmare. I wiped my face roughly with shaky hands, and glared at the book that had fallen. Angrily, I threw it across the room and then flinched at my mistake as it hit the wall with another thud.

I felt alone. I didn’t want to think of that war- of the injuries to my body and mind. How much everything hurt then… it still hurt me now, even though the cuts have healed. An unsteady couple of breaths got me to my feet and out of my flat. My street wasn’t too difficult to traverse, but as I walked to the main street I had to weave between bodies and bump shoulders with people whose faces I won’t remember. I don’t even recall how many times I apologized for nothing. It was a blur as I took my feet and planted them in front of each other. It didn’t matter as long as I kept walking.

And I walked. My hands were in my pockets and my head was tilted downwards. At one moment, I was shoved roughly a few feet and a sound like “tch” came out of my throat. Then I decided to look up.

I don’t know when I found myself with this kind of perception. I didn’t know I had it. But when I looked up on that busy street, I saw everything. I saw a homeless man sitting on a street corner, the cashier of a small shop smoking a cigarette through the window that had a “No Smoking” sign on it. I saw a small child eating ice cream next to his mother and the leaves that blew across the street when a gust of wind came through, scattering light raindrops everywhere. I hugged the inside of the sidewalk and put my arm out to touch the damp wall of a nearby building. I noticed the dirt and grime that got on my hand when I dragged my fingers across it. I saw out of the corner of my eyes a dark shadow in an alley, and suddenly the idea came to my head that maybe drugs might get me through my dull life- give it a flash of some sort -but I immediately denied the thought and was struck with horror. My mother would be upset if I were to choose that life. No. Definitely not. I shook my head absentmindedly.

The shop doors eventually loomed in front of me and I entered, the room much drier than outside. I was used to the rainy weather, but it seemed to be a little too chilly for my taste at that moment. Inside was cozy; I knew the shop well. As meandering was my usual hobby here in the rare moments I did go out, I knew most every trinket and food item on the shelves.

I wandered the aisles for a moment before something managed to catch my eye. That definitely hadn’t been there before. I picked up the jar I had seen, the glass cold on my hand. Bollocks, it was bright orange: it almost made me laugh. Marmalade. I hadn’t seen this stuff in ages.

My childhood, maybe, was the last time I had tasted the citrus-y preserve. On toast. Every breakfast was some kind of toast. Marmalade or jam or marmite or beans… I caught myself staring off into space, then at a clock. It was going to get dark soon. Well. Better get my things and get going.

• • •

Stepping into a sheet of rain was not how I expected to end my day. I cursed into the sky and tried to cover my things with my coat, but to no avail. Soggy bread didn’t make the evening much better, but I made some toast anyway.

That jar of marmalade kept eyeing me, and I wasn’t completely sure what had compelled me to buy it. Well… toast and marmalade… aw, hell.

Probably the most satisfying sound in my entire life was the crunch of that toast in that moment. I had soggy toast and a spread that only added more moisture to the bread to make it wetter, but the fact that it crunched even a little under my teeth, that it was raining outside, that I had nowhere to be, and some water on the stove for my favourite tea… made it near perfection. Imperfect perfection, I would say.

The taste of the marmalade exploded in my mouth. My face twisted oddly at the initial bitter taste, but it morphed into sweetness. I hadn’t tasted this in years. I leaned back against the countertop, savouring the taste and wondering what to do with the rest of the jar- whether to save it or eat more now.

My phone made a sound in my pocket out of nowhere, and in a moment, I grabbed it to silence it. It was… someone I didn’t care for at this moment, so I stared for a second, and then I deleted all the messages, any semblance of care hidden behind a blank expression. The clock in the lounge chimed nine o’ clock. I got up to walk and was overcome with dizziness, catching myself on a ledge.

The good mood caused by the marmalade was short-lived, and I could feel an uninvited nausea coming on. A shower would be good right now. Having a numbingly warm shower would dull the ache in my head.

When I made my trip to the shower, I locked the door behind me. It was an odd habit. Even though I lived alone, I had a kind of paranoia when it came to privacy. I pulled my shirt off and threw it into a pile with the rest of my clothes. I hadn’t realized how filthy I was until now, but I looked in the mirror anyway.

Short-cropped blond hair brushed the tops of my ears and hugged the back of my neck. I leaned up to the mirror. My eyes looked dull. I could point out each and every scar on my body and each and every place it came from- knives, swords, guns, fists, and long painted fingernails weren’t even the least of it all. Thoughts jumbled instead of clearing when I shook my head, and I made an unsatisfied-sounding hum, paused, then stepped into the shower. The water burned at first and I had to move to avoid scalding myself, but I got used to it. I always did. Gazing at the dirt swirling down the drain spurred my nausea and I rested my head against the tiled wall. I slid to the floor of the bath, dizzy and done with the world.

I didn’t know how much time had gone by until the water started to get cold, but when it did, it caused me to strongly want to leave, so I did so, shivering. I quickly towelled off my hair; it stuck up in random places. My face twisted into an expression of confusion and almost humor before I put on clothes: a sweater and a pair of loose khakis.

Tea. Right. I had tea waiting for me. By this point, the drink I had previously prepared was no longer boiling, so I could drink it without too much trouble. My head still hurt, but the tea made it a little better. Tea made everything a little better: my headaches, my nausea, my dull days, and my exhaustion.

I stared at the ceiling. Nothing really ever changed around here, did it? It was the same old cycle of down and out. Get it done, just to have something else to do… or nothing at all. It was almost… boring. I laughed. Hell, I did nothing daily. Absolutely nothing.

I shook my head, confused by my own thoughts. The kitchen suddenly looked dirty and worn down; behind me, the lounge looked ratty and used. I remembered my flat spiffier than this… cleaner, mostly. When did I stop cleaning? When did I stop noticing? When did I stop?

Internally, my thoughts were everywhere like ashes on the wind. Externally, my face morphed into an odd expression of hopelessness and confusion again. My tea tasted bitter and I put it down. I needed to do something- to move, to run, and to live a little before I died.

I could buy a plane ticket and go somewhere. I leaned my head back, lost in my mind. I could get out of this drab-looking flat, this grey city, this small island of a country. I could get out, and go somewhere else.

I pulled my phone from my pocket. But would I? Wait. I had no money. I had a flat and some groceries and a phone and a jar of marmalade, but I had no money to be travelling. Bloody hell, this was stupid. I couldn’t just leave. Common sense told me to stop daydreaming and stay here, but there was something tugging on my instincts. Somehow I knew that if I went somewhere, it would help all this… this low.

I picked up my tea and took another sip. Maybe I could figure something out.

• • •

Selling a few couches and some junk I found in my attic wasn’t quite what I defined as “figuring something out,” but I was sitting on a plane to America with a book in my lap and an assortment of thoughts and scoldings on my mind. I had dug through boxes to find and renew my passport, but I had done it. I had put in the effort to get out.  
I didn’t know what I would do when I got to Boston- I wasn’t familiar with the area at all. I hadn’t been to America in years. I sighed aloud, glancing out the window briefly. Good luck to me. I paused in my thoughts and sunk back into the chair and into my novel.

• • •

After trudging my way through customs, I grabbed my things and stepped out the front doors of the airport, fully planning to book a cab, but not seeing any available. To make matters worse, a raindrop hit me in the nose. I looked up at the sky and sighed yet again. Blasted weather followed me here.

I pulled out my phone, having planned to call for a cab, but as I tapped through my numbers, the contact picture of an old friend, cheeky smile and all, caught my eye. I paused. The number of missed calls and messages from him was horrendous, but I hit the call button. I supposed that I hadn’t booked a hotel anyway.

He picked up after the first ring, and his horribly obnoxious voice greeted me with what I can only describe as excitement.

“Hello…” I replied to his loud address. My voice was rough, having not been properly used in in a while, save it for some ‘thank you’s and ‘have a good day’s.

“Dude! I haven’t heard from you in the past few years or so! Man, Arthur, I’ve missed you, how have you been?”

That was an awkward question, not just coming from him, but also because I didn’t really know the answer.

“I’ve been… er, fine, I suppose. Yeah, I’ve been okay.” That reply could have been better. Oh, right. “And you, Alfred?” I added. When did I forget simple manners? I sighed. For Chrissakes.

“Freakin’ great.” There was a pause, and then in a strangely whiney and childish tone, he said, “I haven’t talked to you- I miss you, Iggy. You never call me first.”

Bloody hell, not that idiotic nickname again. That was a long story all on it’s own. “Good God, I’ve told you not to call me that, Alfred. It’s childish and immature.”

“-My foot. Yo, where are you, anyway?”

“Um, Boston airport.”

“What?! Dude, cool! We could hang out! Hey, you have a place to stay?”

I made to correct him, but then stopped. That was why I had called him. He was the only person I knew well enough who lived close by. I made a face to no one, stuck at the airport, leaning on my luggage. It was starting to rain, and I just had to be stubborn right now.

“I- nng... Blimey, fine, okay, fine.”

I pulled the phone away from my face and made a sound of disappointment off to the side, causing a few people to glance at me. My features twisted in slight embarrassment and I flipped my face towards the street again.

“Hah, sweet, I’ll be there, looking for a blond, grumpy Brit!”

“Oi, I’m not gr-”

He hung up, so I took a moment to internally review the conversation. I cringed at every other thought and proceeded to put a coat on because by this point, it was starting to pour. I hated rain.

About ten minutes later, a sleek car came around a corner. A few people whistled and I realised why: it was a pretty Mustang. I stopped myself from gaping by swallowing hard. Nice car.

It rolled right up to me, I watched as the window went down, and I knew what was about to happen.

Alfred’s obnoxious, smiling face looked at me with glee. I felt heat in my cheeks. I was only a little jealous of his money, but he would never know that.

“So what are you doing here?” Alfred asked from the leather seat.

“I… wanted to get away, I suppose.”

“Cool. Yo, get in, you’re gettin’ soaked.”

It was a little difficult not to stare at the interior of the car as we drove the 10 or 15 minutes back to the American’s place.

He smiled from the drivers spot, eyes on the road. “Whatchu been up to, Iggs? Anything interesting in that dreary country of yours lately?”

“England is just the same, Alfred.” I sighed.

His home was large, if it could even be called so. It even had pillars on the front... bloody Greek architecture. I sighed again, though this time, only half internally. What the hell was he going for? Effing New England or Southern European style? God.

He invited me in- chrissakes, even the inside was horribly decorated. Alfred, you can’t just make the outside of your home… whatever the hell it was, and decorate the inside completely modern. I had to give it to him though, it was still quite nice.

“Jet lag sucks, dude, you should sleep. There’s a guest room down the hall, third left.” Alfred said, flopping on the couch and picking up a controller for a video gaming console.

“Mmhmm.”

I made my way towards the room he directed me to and organised things. When I was satisfied with where clothes and trinkets were, I kicked off my shoes and figured I would sleep. Soft blankets coaxed thoughts into dreams.

• • •

Days went by in a half blur and I slept through some of the daylight. Eventually I did get up, wrapping a blanket around myself and finding the kitchen. Alfred was already there, which surprised me. I figured he would sleep in. He gave me a sympathetic smile and handed me an apple. He was probably smiling at my hair which, when I did a quick check of my reflection in the fridge, was sticking up everywhere.

Maybe I didn’t always enjoy his company, but he was kind to me. I showed up and he was willing to let me sleep in his house for two days and then get up without a word. He didn’t even ask a question. Maybe he knew- of my hardship and my struggles. Though after a moment, a small “Where have you been all these years…?” convinced me otherwise.

“Home.” I merely stated, taking a bite of the fruit in my hand.

“You ignored all my messages and didn’t answer any of my calls…” Alfred paused, glancing at me from his spot across the counter. “I was worried about you, Arthur.”

His odd, caring demeanor surprised me. “I…” My thoughts threatened to spill. “I’ve been… coping.”

“Was it from being a part of that war, ages ago? I know you were stuck on that for years after it happened…” His hands were on the counter now.

“I can’t forget it.” I said. “Alfred, I killed people, and I almost died several times. There’s a constant ringing in my head.” I stood, mentally exposed in the middle of his kitchen.  


I didn’t see him look at me; I was staring at the apple in my hand. However, I looked up just to see him look away from me with a glance of pity and… was that, legitimate concern? I had no idea what he had been thinking in the past year when I shut myself off from the people who cared about me.

I put the core of the apple on the counter and shivered. What was I doing- making people worried about me? I was an inconvenience.

Before I knew what had happened, I heard the quick tap of socks on tile, and arms were wrapped around me before I could look up.

“Alfred…” I whispered.

The last time he had hugged me was back when I came over to a party he was hosting for all of the college graduates. I didn’t know why he had invited me- I didn’t go to school anywhere near, but when I had showed up, he had given me a huge smile and hugged me tight. Almost like he was now, but now… he was shaking, and I could feel emotions coming off of him in waves- emotions of worry and heartache and longing. My voice broke when I tried to say something, and when I took a breath of his scent, a smell I could only match with a feeling of comfort, I shattered and wrapped my own arms around him with a sob.

Before I could stop myself and put my feelings in check, I started crying. I hated crying. I felt weak and useless, but Alfred didn’t move away, or tell me I was childish, or even shift and inch; he just stood there and let my tears soak his shirt.

Society always told me that men didn’t cry. I think that’s rubbish- complete bullshit. Men cried. We cry more than society knows. I cried.

It was several long, long minutes before I stopped shaking, and it was several more before Alfred moved a bit and observed my face.

“I hate it when you’re sad.” He whispered, not daring to disrupt the thin layer of serenity in the moment. “It makes me feel like I didn’t do my job right.”

“What… job… ?” I managed to mutter.

Then I remembered. Back in high school, when I attended class on an exchange program, there was a funny-looking kid with glasses too big for his face, but the sweetest smile. He would find any moment to talk to me, and he would blush when I laughed, and offer to carry my things. I remembered the haphazard relationship we tried- how we had decided it wasn’t worth it, and how it was childish, so we stuck to being friends. I closed my eyes and remembered every single nervous kiss and stroll with our hands together. How could I put all that aside? I had completely forgotten it all. I remembered the day I had to leave, when he had taken me to a secluded place under the stars and had told me-

“That I would be your hero.” Alfred took my face in his hands and my eyes opened to the tear-filled blue of his. “That I would keep you safe, and-”

“-Keep the monsters away…” I finished.

“Now, I didn’t do that part very well, did I?”

I tried to laugh, but it sounded sick and distressed.

Alfred let go of me and turned away with a hand on his arm.

“You know, it’s been okay-” I started to say as an excuse, hoping I could get him off the subject for reasons I didn’t know, but Alfred cut me off.

“No, it’s not been. When you walked in here, you looked liked you were dying. You used to be so much happier.”

I didn’t say anything, only went to sit on one of the bar stools. He was right. Not only did I look like I was dying, I _felt_ like I was dying.

Alfred went back to the fridge, grabbing a couple eggs and moved to the stove, cracking them into a pan in agitated silence.

After a few minutes I could smell the sharp herb scent of garlic and hear the sizzle of bacon.

“When did you learn to cook?” I asked. I never recalled, in all the years I’d known him, that cooking anything was ever on his agenda. From what I remembered, he was a fast food junkie, always holding a coke.

“I started binge eating when you left after college.” He said in a small voice as if he was afraid of the reason. “I gained too much weight, so my doctor suggested a hobby that related to health. I started working out and taking up cooking.” He held his arm out and flexed. Bicep donned in short sleeve, I could easily see the bulge of muscle and was mildly impressed. He was no longer the broad-shouldered (however thin), nerdy college kid I used to know. His red glassed fit his face now, and after running a hand absentmindedly through dirty blond hair, he set a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast in front of me on the marble island countertop.

I was surprised at the gesture, thinking he had been was cooking for himself. When I told him I wasn’t really hungry, that the apple had been enough, he pouted and urged me to eat, claiming that he could “wrap his hands around my wrists twice, they were so thin.”

Sure, he had two hands, so his analogy didn’t make much sense, but I appreciated the attempt at figurative language anyway and thanked him for breakfast.  
I hadn’t eaten a full meal in a long time, and I thought about the last time I had bacon, and how it must have been years ago. Now, it tasted amazing.

“I have a lot of flashbacks.” I said in between bites of toast.

“About the war?” Alfred asked. He was leaning against the countertop, rolling- absentmindedly around the table with his index finger -some blueberries he had retrieved a few minutes earlier.

“Yeah, about the war.”

“You know I fought in it too.”

“Not on the front lines.”

“I guess you’re right.” Alfred looked at me and the blanket wrapped around my shoulders. “Would talking about it help?”

“No. There’s not much to tell. I shot people, I got shot. I’m not over it.”

“Do you have dreams?” He sounded genuinely interested.

“Not really.” I paused. “At least I don’t remember any of them.”

Alfred popped a blueberry in his mouth and didn’t say anything else.

“Do you have anything for this toast?” I asked. It tasted dry to me, even with the generous amount of butter that Alfred had already applied.

“Oh right. You Brits love toast, I forgot.” He smiled. “I have this stuff my mom sent me, but I don’t like it.”

Alfred moved to a cupboard and searched for whatever his mother had sent him. What he pulled out nearly made me drop my toast.

“Your mother sent you _marmalade?”_

“Yeah, sends me some every year. I don’t have the heart to say no, though. It’s British jam from my British mom- tastes like thick orange juice.” The American laughed. “You like this stuff?”

“I do.” I laughed too, and it was a real laugh that filled my lungs. The feeling was incredible. I recalled the last time I had laughed, but I couldn’t seem to remember where I was when it happened.

“I dunno, I think it’s gross.” Alfred laughed again and made a funny face.

With Alfred and his fruit, and me and my toast, we sat in the kitchen and made small talk for a while. Alfred eventually turned off the hanging lights above the counter and opened the blinds on the far wall to let sunlight into the room. He really had an incredible view. With it being late spring and rainy weather off and on, everything was lush and green. Alfred by no means had a mansion or and ‘estate’ per say, but he did have a large yard, full of bright yellow daffodils, blue forget-me-nots, and daisies that popped up here and there. There were lilac bushes and trees that had just finished flowering. It was spectacular. I wondered if Alfred was the one who had done the landscaping.

“Yeah, I plant flowers, because I have nothing better to do.” he replied.

I must have spoken the thought aloud.

“Manly, right Arthur?” Alfred smiled at me and struck a pose, pretending to look tough.

I laughed again. “Don’t you have a job?”

“Yeah, accounting. Lousy job too.” He shrugged. “But it pays. You?”

“Nothing right now.” Or last week, or the month before, or the month before that, but yet again, Alfred didn’t need to know. “I’ve been digging into my savings.”

“You know what, Arthur?” Alfred grabbed his keys from off of the island countertop, changing the subject. “I wanna show you around. Why don’t you get dressed?”

I had been fully planning on going to bed and sleeping for the last two days of my trip, but I couldn’t say no the to genuine excitement as he grabbed my hand and pulled me off of the stool.

“Okay, okay,” I chuckled. “Give me five minutes.”

• • •

The next couple days were spent with Alfred taking me places, or cooking me food, or playing chess with me, because I “like these kinda oldie things, right?”  


But it was fun. I hadn’t had more fun in my life than when I spent four days in Boston with my friend. I felt happiness for the first time in a long time, and part of me hated the idea of going home. But I needed to.

The evening I had to leave, Alfred actually offered me money. I declined. I _couldn’t_ take his money. I didn’t want to be a hindrance.

“Buy yourself some more flowers.” I had told him with a playful shove.

I heard him mumble something about “mailing stamps” as he left the room shortly afterwards, and and I packed my things, quite reluctant myself to leave, only because I had a feeling that things would only get worse when I got home. I sighed again like I usually did, and I sat in my borrowed room in silence for a moment before I had Alfred drive me back to the airport, so I could catch my flight.

When I had to go, the git hugged me, and I think I saw him cry, blubbering about how “you’d better talk to me, I’ll miss you, and come visit me more, you idiot.”

I smiled.

• • •

Upon returning home, I was surprised to find a small cardboard box waiting for me at my front door. Odd. I threw my coat over my shoulder and stooped down to inspect the label.

It didn’t say who it was from. I picked it up and opened it, finding a note on top of a cardboard barrier made to protect whatever was inside.

_FedEx works faster than you can fly. - Alfred_

I chuckled and opened the rest of the brown paper wrapping, finding something glass and cold. There were three jars, and pulling one out, I saw the bright orange of marmalade. I stood for a moment, surprised and pondering.

Maybe things would be okay.

Just maybe… a little marmalade could make it better.


End file.
